


Fortune's Fools

by Delylah



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-03-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:47:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delylah/pseuds/Delylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles, 100-word and longer, featuring Charlotte Matheson and Bass Monroe, pre-ship, mostly missing moments or alternate POV. May eventually be overtly shippy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Purgatory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bass POV - post season 1 finale

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This series is a collection of drabbles. I'm not necessarily writing them in order so the chapters may get shifted around as I post them. Sorry for any confusion :)

Bass knew he shouldn’t be standing in the middle of an open plain in the midst of an electrical storm. He was the tallest thing around for miles. Somehow, just couldn’t bring himself to care. As the hair on his arms stood on end, he turned in a circle, watching strike after strike and knew what he was witnessing wasn’t natural in origin. He wondered what Rachel Matheson had unleashed in that tower.

The next morning he wandered into the nearest town to find it abuzz with excitement. The power had been on for four entire minutes, lights shining, appliances whirring, television blaring with pre-recorded programming that had never aired and picked up where it left off. For four whole minutes, there was hope in the world again. But Bass couldn’t share their enthusiasm. He remembered the lightning, and Randall Flynn, and knew that nothing good had come of those four minutes of power.

Days later, the rumors started trickling in. Nukes had fallen in Philadelphia and Atlanta, with countless casualties. The Monroe Republic and the Georgia Federation both crumbled to ash in the space of four minutes. And the person being held responsible for it all was none other than General Sebastian Monroe. He was sick at the thought of his beautiful city in ruins, its people reduced to ghostly shadows etched onto buildings and pavement.

Deep down, he knew they were right to blame him. He might not have pushed the button himself, but he let Randall in the door. Still, one thing he’d always been in possession of was a strong sense of self-preservation. He stole some clothing from a clothesline and burned his uniform, then he burned away the ink on his arm. Then he proceeded to get very, very drunk.

His days became mindless repeats. Eat. Sleep. Fight. Fuck. He brawled with mindless ease; the trick was not to care if he won or lost. There was no pain he could suffer at his opponent’s fists that was greater than anything he had already experienced. He stayed in a town long enough to earn the diamonds to keep him fed while he wandered to the next town. If there were no fights to be had, he’d play cards. Sometimes he would even do manual labor, in exchange for food, or liquor, or pleasurable company. When he asked himself why he bothered, he knew it was because he was a coward, too afraid of the hell that likely waited for him in death to check himself out of the one in which he spent his life.

Six months after the tower, everything changed. He was nearing the end of a fight in New Vegas, moments away from victory, when the hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of glacial blue eyes and dirty blonde hair.

Charlotte.

But when he finished the fight and looked around, she was gone, and he wondered if perhaps he had imagined her, if her shade had stepped out of his dreams at last to haunt him during his waking hours. His latest bedmate congratulated him on a match well fought, and instead of pocketing his winnings, he decided to blow them on the roulette wheel. After all, if Charlotte had found him, he wasn’t likely to need them.

When Ratos knocked on his door, he knew it was time. He didn’t want to miss this one, indeed. He wondered how she would do it. Would she wait until they were face to face, shove a gun into his face and blow his brains out, the same way he’d once threatened to have his man do to her?

No. She was smarter than that. He knew the moment he stepped out of his trailer he was a dead man walking. He counted his steps as he went, the last measure of his life. The blow, when it came, was unexpected, and it saved his hide. The last thing he saw was Charlotte’s arrow vibrating in the pole above him, until the blast of a shot gun roared in his ears, pulling him from unconsciousness, and she came flying over the side of the pool, landing at his feet like a broken angel.

He watched as they bound her wrists and secured her to the frame of the diving board at the end of the pool. She dangled there, unaware of him until shortly after dawn, when she came to and panicked, clawing at the ropes around her wrists.

“Rise and shine,” he murmured, just to see what she’d do. Her head popped up immediately; she knew it was him, it just took her a second to focus well enough to locate him. When she did, he couldn’t help but be disappointed at the undisguised loathing in her eyes. Was it too much to ask that saving her life in the tower count for something?

The bounty hunter approached her with a salve for the abrasions on her shoulder, warning her not to try anything cute. When he pushed her hair gently behind her shoulder and pulled her jacket away from the bloody wounds, Charlotte flinched, moaning in pain. Bass ground his teeth in frustration, and ducked his head. It was still there, that nebulous, swooping sensation of wrong at the thought of someone hurting her. His hands flexed, itching to lock themselves around the bounty hunter’s neck for daring to touch her.

A few moments later, she nearly had him laughing in spite of himself when she insulted the bounty hunter and complimented him in the same breath. He’d never met anyone like her in his entire life - fierce, determined, unafraid. He supposed it was a good thing she considered him a worthy foe, at least. He wondered if there was any way in hell he’d ever be able to convince her to see him as something other than her enemy. For now, he would have to be satisfied with ensuring her continued survival.


	2. Deadlights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie, post season 1 finale. 100 word drabble.

After Nora died and the bombs fell, you realized your mother was a monster. So you wandered, looking for something. You drank. You danced. You fucked. You met Jeff. You knew he wanted you to stay, and you thought about it. He was cute; you were bored.

When he said he’d seen Monroe, you realized what you had been looking for all along. You found him brawling shirtless in New Vegas. When you looked into his eyes, they were empty and desperate, like yours. Your world turned upside down. You still hated him. But part of you wanted him, too.


	3. the sway of her hips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bass 100 word drabble, 2x03.

Bass ground his teeth in frustration as she sauntered away, never once looking back at him. As he turned to watch her, his gaze was drawn to the gentle sway of her hips, and he had to admit he was damn tempted to take her up on her offer. It wouldn’t hurt her much, but enough that she wouldn’t be walking back home without his help. He lifted the shotgun halfway, focusing briefly on the slope of her backside before he lowered it again. She nearly had him convinced she wasn’t afraid of him. And he liked that about her


	4. The Second Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bass's POV during episode 2x04, before and after he rescues Charlie from the men in the bar (inspired by a Tumblr post wherein someone asked whether Bass would have carried Charlie while she was unconscious).

Bass had been tracking Charlie for the better part of the afternoon and evening when he spotted the small village up ahead at a crossroads. He brought the horses to a halt and pulled out the binoculars he'd found with the bounty hunter's gear to get a better look before he approached. The village consisted of a handful of run-down houses and a couple of storefronts; the surrounding countryside was once farmland, dotted here and there with barns, silos, and farm houses that were rotting away from lack of upkeep, slowly being devoured by the overgrown vegetation.

Charlie had walked away from him with just the clothes on her back, no pack, and likely no weapon. She had to stop somewhere for food. There were lights on in the windows of one of the storefronts; a sign outside proclaimed it to be the "Hole in the Wall." She would probably take her chances there. Bass left the horses tethered outside of a nearby pole barn, most of which was still standing, and walked the rest of the way to the village.

He didn't like the looks of the place. It was quiet enough, but something about it made him uneasy. His fingers alternately clenched and unclenched the grip of his machete as he drew closer to the village. The sun had set an hour ago, and he thought he much preferred the noise and chaos of New Vegas to the oppressive darkness and silence of villages like this one.

He chided himself for being foolish. He was tired and hungry, and his patience had run out. He hoped Charlie was in there, and that she would listen to reason this time. However, if she wasn't going to cooperate, he was perfectly willing to knock her out, tie her up and drag her ass back to the cart. He could talk some sense into her on their way back to wherever Miles was.

While he was still some distance from the bar, the sound of glass shattering broke the stillness. Bass stopped in his tracks; even from his current distance he could detect the sounds of a scuffle inside. His unease bloomed into full on panic as he broke into a dead run.

"God damn you, Charlotte, what the hell have you got yourself into now?" he growled to himself. When he reached the front of the building he noticed that the scuffling sounds had ceased and felt a moment's relief, thinking perhaps the noise had simply been a brief disagreement between some of the patrons. He paused at the broken window to assess the situation. Charlie was inside, backed up against a wall, looking dazed as she swayed on her feet. She was surrounded by four men who were inching toward her warily, their intent clear.

General Sebastian Monroe saw red as he kicked in the front door.

"Charlotte? Wake up, Charlotte. You need to wake up!"

Bass kneeled down beside the girl and grasped her shoulders to shake her gently. Charlie's head lolled back, and she offered no resistance. She appeared to be unconscious. Bass released her shoulders and reached for her wrist, intending to check her pulse. Instead, he froze as his fingers traced across raised lines on the underside of her forearm. Slowly he turned her wrist so that the palm of her hand faced upward.

"Aw, fuck," he swore softly as he gazed at the shiny, pink scar that marred her skin, an M inscribed inside of three-quarters of a circle. Somehow, somewhere she'd been branded with the mark of his militia. As if she needed another reason to hate him. As if he needed another reason to hate himself.

He shook his head and shifted his fingers to the pulse point at her wrist instead. There would be time for self-recrimination later, after he'd finished rescuing her. Her pulse was slower than normal, but steady, and she seemed to be breathing okay. He couldn't see any signs of injury. The bastards must have drugged her.

"Come on, Charlotte, wake up. Wake up, Charlotte!" he demanded, slapping her face lightly.

Charlie moaned and opened her eyes briefly, but did not rouse any further. Bass didn't have time to wait her to regain consciousness. They needed to leave before someone else came along and noticed a half dozen dead bodies in the joint. To buy some time, he closed the front door and blocked it with a table. Next, he retrieved his machetes and wiped the blood away before he sheathed them. A cursory search of the bodies revealed an assortment of knives, a couple of flasks and a dozen or so small diamonds. Bass pocketed the stones and the flasks. Only one of the knives was worth keeping, which he tucked into his boot. Finally, he kicked open the rear exit before returning to Charlie. Crouching beside her, he lifted her into his arms and cradled her close to his chest as he stood to keep her head from flopping back like a ragdoll's. Her vulnerability left him unsettled; he'd never seen her so helpless. not even with a gun in her face, or when she was tied up in an empty swimming pool with her worst enemy. She should be awake and on her feet, her frosty blue eyes glaring defiantly at him.

Bass carried her to the door he had kicked open and peered outside. The quiet was absolute, and he suspected he may have just killed half of the population of this godforsaken little village. All the same, they needed to get away quickly and quietly, and he didn't want to be caught unable to draw his weapon. Bass released his hold on Charlie's legs and braced her up against the doorframe. Then he bent his shoulder to her waist and hoisted her into a fireman's carry that would leave one arm free for his sword, should he need it. Her weight threw him off balance enough that he stumbled momentarily. He shifted her into a better position and chuckled softly.

"You know Charlotte," he said, smiling faintly at the thought of the sharp retort she was currently unable to give, "you're heavier than you look." As he wrapped his left arm securely around the backs of her thighs, he knew why. They were corded with long, lean muscle that spoke of regular physical exertion.

Bass glanced one last time around the shabby bar to take stock. He'd killed six men for her, two of which she'd managed to incapacitate on her own before the drugs the cowards had given her overcame her. As he carried her away into the night, he realized he was strangely proud of her.

It was too bad he couldn't tell her that.


	5. Reborn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bass and Rachel have a brief conversation. Charlie/Bass very lightly implied.

“Rachel,” he begins hesitantly as she is checking the reaction of his pupils, “I don’t know why you did what you did, but I need to tell you-”

“I’m not interested in anything you have to say,” she says icily. She puts her fingers to his wrist to check his pulse. He seems to have suffered no ill-effects from the drugs.

His mouth promptly snaps shut, which is unusual for him. Bass Monroe has never been one to let someone dictate what he will and will not say. He nods and looks away, his eyes taking in details in the kitchen: the knife next to the loaf of bread, the empty milk bottle, the curtains fluttering in the open window. He takes a deep breath.

“Can you at least tell me why?” he asks, and he sounds as if he is truly struggling to understand why he is still alive. She doesn’t want to tell him. She doesn’t owe him that truth; he doesn’t deserve it. But she realizes more is at stake here than justice. So she tells him.

“Because Charlie asked me to.”

By the look on his face she has shocked him, and the revelation means something to him, though she’s not sure what. She steps closer to him, forcing down the skin-crawling revulsion she has felt in his presence ever since Miles abandoned her to this madman and looks him straight in the eye. His eyes meet hers without challenge, willing to accept whatever words she has for him.

“If you ever make her regret it….”

She doesn’t have to finish. He nods in understanding.

“I won’t,” he utters with quiet determination. 

She realizes that, for the first time in more than a decade, Bass is sane. 

And he is all the more terrifying for it.


	6. But It's A Conversation I Just Can't Have Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Response to an anonymous prompt on Tumblr requesting Charlie on watch while everyone else is sleeping, hearing Bass call her name in his sleep.

Charlie hated having second watch. Third watch was easy, it was just a matter of getting up a couple of hours early. First watch wasn't bad either, she just had to stay awake an extra couple of hours until it was time to wake her relief. Second watch was hell; it meant that someone came and shook her out of a too-short sleep, usually not long after she'd managed to reach the point of complete relaxation rather than the restless twilight stage where she was on some level still aware of her surroundings. Even worse, Bass had a tendency to take more extreme measures if his target didn't wake quickly enough. He'd never kicked her, but she had woken to water being splashed on her face more than once. Then he'd laughed when she'd cursed at him.

Tonight instead of shaking her he nudged her with the tip of his boot against her backside, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to be annoying. She shifted onto her back with growl and rubbed her eyes, blinking up at him. The firelight exaggerated the shadows and angles of his face, lending him the appearance of the monstrous General Monroe that had once fueled her nightmares.

"Get up, Charlotte. It's your watch," he said gruffly.

Without offering her a hand to help her stand, or even waiting to see if she was completely conscious, he walked to his own bedroll, placed well away from the rest of their group. She watched him go, wondering if it was paranoia, self-preservation or just plain avoidance that drove him to sleep separately from the rest. Grumbling softly, she wrapped herself in her bedroll and propped herself against a wagon wheel in front of the fire, mentally beginning the first chapter of  _The Hobbit_  in an attempt to stay awake

By the time Gandalf, Bilbo and the dwarves made it to Rivendell, Charlie was nodding off. The heat from the fire, combined with her exhaustion from the day's ride and the remaining alcohol in her system, was making her drowsy. She and Connor had shared stories and a flask all evening while Bass looked on. She'd asked him to tell them stories about what the world was like before the power went out, but he'd declined, giving some bullshit excuse about being too old to remember. Instead he'd drunk steadily from his own flask, smiling occasionally at their antics, but the alcohol seem to have the opposite effect on him than it did on either her or Connor. Where they became increasingly relaxed and silly, Bass instead became pensive.

When she had turned in for the night, he'd acknowledged her with a nod but had been unwilling to meet her eyes. She thought maybe he was still holding a grudge that Duncan had put the mercs under her command rather than his. Stealing his flask seemed like an appropriate punishment, and she needed to stretch her legs anyway. After checking over the rest of the camp to make sure everything was secure, she crept soundlessly over to where Bass lay, as if she were stalking a deer. However, unlike the rest, he was not sleeping quietly; he was instead thrashing occasionally in his bedroll. As she drew nearer, she could hear him muttering faintly.

_"No. Don't,"_  he murmured. His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Charlie felt a pang of empathy for him. She was only just now getting to the point where she didn't wake screaming more nights than not, either reliving Danny's death, or Nora's, or one of the countless horrible things that had happened over the past year and a half. Being buried alive beneath a mountain of rubble was a frequent nightmare, too.

_General Sebastian Monroe suffers from nightmares. Who knew?_

Of course, when she thought about it, it made sense. He had likely seen as many horrors as he had committed, and going by what Miles had shared with her, his life before the blackout had been no picnic in the sunshine, either. She abandoned the childish plan to steal what was likely one of his few sources of comfort.  _Let him have his drink. Sometimes I want to drink away my nightmares, too._ She turned to go back to her spot at the wagon, but his next utterance stopped her in her tracks.

_"No. No! Charlie!"_

His voice was pitched higher this time; her name a cry of despair. She couldn't help herself. Even as she realized it was likely a bad idea, she knelt down beside him and gently shook his shoulder.

"Bass, you ok?"

Without warning he grabbed her upper arms and rolled her under him, pinning her in place with his forearm and body weight. Before she could utter a sound his knife was at her throat instead of in its holster. His eyes darted around furiously, still seeing invisible horrors instead of Charlie or their camp site. His sides were heaving as if he had been running. When he pressed the knife into her skin, Charlie fought the panicked urge to ram her knee into his crotch. Instead, she called his name softly.

"Bass. Bass, look at me."

He did as she asked, but his eyes were still wild, and she could tell he wasn't actually seeing her; he was still lost in his nightmare. She brought her hands up and pressed them gently against the sides of his face, keeping his gaze focused on hers. "It's just me, Bass. It's me. It's Charlie," she said calmly.

The sound of her own name seemed to do the trick; sanity gradually returned to his expression. He flicked his eyes from her face to his knife, which he then he hurled it away. But instead of rolling off of her, he lowered his face into the curve of her neck and shoulder and exhaled deeply. Tentatively, she slid her hands around his shoulders. In response, he tucked one hand behind her head, grasped her waist with the other and tugged, rolling her with him until they were on their sides, her head pillowed on his arm. She could have extricated herself easily if she wanted, but she didn't, yet. They lay that way for several moments, hearts drumming in sync, until Charlie felt compelled to break the silence.

"Bass, what were you-" she began nervously, but he interrupted.

"Charlotte…don't. Either get up and walk away, or shut up and let me hold you for a few more minutes. Your choice," he said in a rough voice edged with exhaustion. His breathing was still ragged, disturbed by whatever he had experienced in his dreamscape. When she didn't move to roll away from him, he shifted his hand to the small of her back and tugged her closer before resting his forehead against hers. Closing his eyes, he breathed a sigh of relief.

After a moment of deliberation, Charlie relaxed into his embrace, molding her body to his. There she stayed until his breaths were deep and even. Realizing he'd fallen asleep, she pulled back a fraction and studied his face carefully, searching for a trace of the monster she hated in the man who sought comfort in her arms. Finding none, she explored the lines of his face with her fingertips before leaning in to press her lips gently against his. His fingers tightened reflexively against her back.

_"Mmm. Charlie?"_ he murmured, and the rumble of his voice spurred an electric charge that began in the base of her spine where his hand was splayed and spiraled outward to the rest of her. For a moment, she was tempted.

_No thinking. No talking. Just bodies in motion._

But instead, she whispered, "Shh. You're dreaming."

When he was quiet again, she wriggled out of his embrace as carefully as she could so as not to wake him. Then she went back to the wagon to finish her watch and wound up taking Connor's, too.

She had a lot to think about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I couldn't remember if _The Hobbit_ being one of Charlie's text books was canon or fanon. Sally_Port was kind enough to jog my memory. The idea is from "Alliance Doesn't Mean Forever" by Corycides, which is an amazing story that you should go read right now if you haven't already. 
> 
> **Title obviously ripped from Florence and the Machine's "No Light, No Light," because that song totally fits Bass/Charlie.
> 
> Reviews are love. Constructive criticism is deeply appreciated.


	7. As We Forgive Our Debtors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A missing moment from 2x14, Fear and Loathing. After the fight. Before Charlie gets her army.

After Charlie released Monroe and Connor, and Duncan and her men had killed Gould and all of his guards, Duncan led them all back to her camp. Charlie fell back several paces before she veered off on her own, hoping no one would notice her absence. She needed to retrieve the rest of her clothing and her shoes, and she preferred to do it alone. She didn’t feel like answering questions or dealing with anyone’s looks of pity. 

She should have known better. Monroe caught up to her not a minute after she split off from the rest of the group, but he didn’t say a word, didn’t ask her where she was going. When they arrived at the trailer, he barred her from entering. Instead, he walked in alone first. She followed after a moment, noting the clenched fists at his sides and his tense posture as he observed the rumpled bedding, the strangled corpse, and the chains on the floor.

“Hey, you know he didn’t-” she began, but he cut her off.

“I know,” he said shortly. He glanced at her, then flicked his eyes away quickly. “You did good. Get dressed.”

The quarters were too cramped for him to exit without brushing up against her as he sidled past, leaving her with goosebumps on her flesh. She dressed hurriedly, anxious to leave the filthy trailer behind as quickly as possible. When she stepped outside again, he was leaning back with one foot propped on the side of the trailer, waiting for her. He fell into step at her right side as they headed to Duncan’s camp together.

“How’d you get caught?” he asked in a conversational tone after they had been walking several minutes.

For a moment, Charlie wrestled with the notion of telling him the truth. “Doesn’t matter,” she said finally. “Everything turned out alright in the end, didn’t it?”

He gave a short, disbelieving laugh. “Never thought you’d cover for Duncan. Do you honestly expect me to believe she didn’t hand you over to Gould?”

“Maybe if you’d treated her like a decent human being in the first place, I wouldn’t have to,” she retorted.

“Maybe if you hadn’t come hunting for me, I wouldn’t have left,” he countered darkly.

That brought Charlie up short; she hadn’t thought about the fact that she was the one who had lured him out, making him an easy target for the bounty hunters. That was likely the last time Duncan had seen him until two nights ago. _No wonder she was so angry,_ Charlie thought.

She and Monroe continued walking together in silence until they neared the bonfire at the camp. Charlie welcomed the wave of heat and the scent of woodsmoke that greeted them, even from several yards away. Connor was already seated nearby, hungrily devouring a plate of food as he carefully observed his surroundings. Duncan was deep in conversation with a group of men, but she looked over as they approached, nodding once at Charlie. Monroe started toward Connor, but there was something Charlie needed to say to him first.

“Wait,” she said quietly. Monroe halted in his tracks and turned back in her direction, looking at her quizzically with his hands shoved in his front pockets.

Charlie cleared her throat nervously, but her voice was still husky when she spoke.

“I never thanked you, before, at that bar. Or any of the other times,” she added. She took a deep breath before continuing. “So…thank you. Even though I don’t understand why.”

He took a step toward her, watching her warily, as if he expected her to attack him if he let his guard down.

“You don’t have to thank me, Charlie,” he said. “I should be thanking you. You didn’t have to come back.

He glanced briefly over his shoulder at Connor before adding, “I’m glad you did.”

Then he folded his arms against his chest and looked down for such a long moment that Charlie couldn’t decide if he was debating with himself or if he was just done talking. She started to move past him but he put his hand on her arm to stop her, and when he spoke again it was in such a low voice she had to strain to hear.

“As for why,” he began, pausing to finally look up and meet her eyes with the intense gaze that had begun to haunt her waking thoughts and her dreams, “maybe I just think you’re worth saving.

He turned and walked away to join Connor at the bonfire before she could reply. She hoped he already knew what he didn’t give her the chance to say: the feeling was mutual.


	8. Don't Speak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A response to a request from an anon on Tumblr: "Could you please please pleaaaase write a one-shot about how Monroe tells Charlie her loves her??"

They had never been much for talking. When they did talk, it devolved into juvenile banter more often than not. His new favorite pet name for her was Mini Miles. He thought she didn’t know about that, but she did. She supposed it was only fair; after all, she called his kid Baby Bass.

The funny thing was, they didn’t often need words to communicate. Usually he made himself clear with a gesture (sometimes a dirty one), a nod of his head, or even something so simple as the flick of his eyes in a certain direction.

 

Sometimes Charlie wished it was someone else she could communicate with so easily, someone else who understood her as well as he did. Someone,  _anyone_  besides Bass Monroe.

She never had that kind of understanding with Jason. She trusted him when she shouldn’t have, and wound up almost getting Miles killed. She didn’t trust him when she could have, and effectively ended their budding relationship at an airfield in the middle of nowhere. He had been the first person to tell her he loved her, outside of her mother and father and Danny. She remembered what it should look like when someone told her they loved her, but when she looked for it in his eyes, she couldn’t see it there.

She hoped it would be different when she saw him again. For a moment, she thought it might be. When they came face to face, they lowered their guns at the same time. Charlie wanted nothing more than to run into his arms. She hadn’t loved him before, but she thought she might have been able to, in another time and place. He was sweet and gentle, and his kisses had made her toes tingle. The Charlie she had been then cherished those things about him.

But she wasn’t that girl anymore, and he was no longer the boy she once knew. His eyes were shadowed with something terrible, and she knew without either of them saying it that whatever they had once together had died with those other selves. She would grieve later, when she had time and no one could see.

She never bothered to hope to have that kind of understanding with Connor. He was attractive enough (in no small part because he bore a strong resemblance to his father), and he was sweet, in a naive sort of way. Charlie didn’t understand how a boy who had been raised by the leader of a drug cartel had managed to reach adulthood without losing that bloom of innocence. Hers had faded so long ago that she hadn’t even felt guilty for using him to scratch an itch. He had finally stopped looking at her like a puppy that still worshipped her in spite of the fact she had once kicked it.

She had lied when she told him that she didn’t care. She cared enough to have hope for him. She hoped he would survive. She hoped that someday he would find a nice girl who would love him the way she would never be able to. She hoped that he and this girl would settle down and have kids and a dog and a white picket fence, and that their life together would be a fucking bed of roses. Someone should have those things. He probably deserved them more than any of the rest of them did.

Sometimes she wondered if Bass had those things if he would have been different, if maybe her entire world would have been different.

_(and sometimes she wondered if it maybe it wasn’t too late for either of them, but she didn’t ever dare to hope)_

She knew Bass had been waiting for her to make the first move but it never seemed like the right time. At first, she still hated him. When she didn’t hate him anymore, her mother still did. Even when she was still so angry with Rachel she couldn’t be in the same room with her, she didn’t want to flaunt an ill-conceived sexual relationship in her face.

Then there was Connor.

She was still paying for that mistake. She had thought he might be the solution to her problem. Fucking Bass was wrong on so many levels. Connor looked enough like Bass, was built enough like Bass, and came without all the baggage that having any kind of relationship with Bass would entail. She had thought a one-night stand would be enough to get it out of her system. She didn’t think Connor would get attached. She didn’t think Bass would care.

But they did.

She had laughed when Bass had found them in that field. But the look on his face, later, wasn’t funny anymore. And whatever had transpired between Bass and Connor between the time they had been caught by Gould and the time she had unlocked the cage hadn’t helped. Connor wouldn’t look directly at either of them anymore. Bass would no longer give her more than a brief glance. During the weeks it took them to travel back to Willoughby, if he wanted something from her, he asked for it while gazing at a spot in the distance over her shoulder. Otherwise he avoided her as much as possible.

She didn’t like to admit to herself that the worst thing that had happened as a result of her night with Connor was that she realized what she wanted from Bass was more than just sex. She was afraid she had managed to destroy whatever had been building between them without ever giving it a chance. Sometimes she wanted to tell him to stop speaking and just  _look_  at her again, because not long ago, that was all they’d needed.

Two days after Charlie, Bass and Connor returned to Willoughby they helped destroy the re-education center and reclaim the town, their first major victory in the long war to come. They enjoyed the resulting downtime for a week, working to rebuild the damage the town had suffered during the battle. However, Bonnie Webster, Aaron’s reporter friend, had paid them a visit just that morning. There was a typhus epidemic in Austin. Rangers were dying left and right, along with a significant number of civilians. The nine of them (the usual suspects, plus Aaron, the reporter, Gene, and Duncan) had gathered in Gene’s house to plan their mission. Duncan had arrived with another two dozen men the previous day, to Charlie’s surprise.

The meeting broke up around midnight. They would be splitting up into separate groups when they rode out the next morning, which meant there was a distinct possibility that some of them might not see each other again. As everyone departed, Bass stopped to speak to Miles.

“Guess this is it, brother,” he said, clasping Miles’s forearm. Miles pulled him into one of those “bro hugs” with the excessive back slapping that Charlie had always considered ridiculous.

“Take it easy, Bass. We’ll see you at the rendezvous in Austin,” Miles replied.

Bass nodded as Miles released him. Rachel stood off to one side with her arms folded across her chest, watching the exchange with obvious disapproval.

“Take care, Rachel,” Bass said, and for once his voice lacked its usual flippancy. Rachel acknowledged him with a nod but nothing more. Then he turned to Charlie.  For the first time in weeks he looked her directly in the eyes without flinching.

“Charlie,” he started, then he paused and gave her a fleeting smile. “Try not to get yourself killed. I might not be around to bail you out of trouble this time.”

Charlie couldn’t return his smile, as she realized he was right. For months now, she hadn’t given a great deal of thought to the potential consequences of her actions. She was used to seeing Bass on her right or at her back, ready to jump in with lethal force if she needed him. But they had separate tasks to accomplish on this mission; tomorrow he wouldn’t be there at her side.

He was watching her intently, and she realized that, finally, it was time.

“Be careful,” she said. He gave her a sharp nod and left.

Charlie hugged her mother and Miles goodbye, with the excuse that she was spending the night in Duncan’s camp outside the town walls, as were Connor and the men whose command with which Charlie had been entrusted. They didn’t question her; she knew they had their own reasons for wanting to be alone.

Bass was waiting for her outside at the foot of the stairs, leaning against the railing. She paused on the bottom step, wondering, waiting. With nothing more than a nod of his head toward town and a heated glance, she knew they were once again in that place where words were unnecessary. She stretched out her hand and he caught it, tugging her down the last step.

She followed him, almost jogging to keep up with his long strides, to the house he’d claimed at the outskirts of town. It had been vacant ever since they’d arrived in Willoughby months ago, and he hadn’t felt welcome to sleep under Gene’s roof since they had returned from New Vegas. He locked the door behind them and led her up the stairs to the bedroom.

Charlie wasn’t sure what to expect. She’d was used to taking the initiative in her brief encounters with men in the past; but all of them had been about sex and her own determination not to feel anything. She couldn’t be that way with Bass, so she floundered, feeling every one of her inexperienced twenty-one years, with her icy fingers and her pounding heart. But when he turned and laced the fingers of both his hands through hers and squeezed, she was startled to realize he was every bit as nervous as she. She remembered that, just like her, he’d never had this, either.

Walking backwards, he pulled her gently toward the bed. When the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the mattress, he sat, which put them almost at the same height. He released her hands and slid his arms around her waist, coaxing her forward until he had her caught between his knees. He leaned his forehead against hers and closed his eyes.

“Charlie, I need to tell you….” he began but broke off with a frustrated growl. She heard him grind his teeth together before he tried again in a hoarse voice. “I may not get another chance, and I-I-  _fuck._  I’m no good at this.”

Charlie lifted her head from his and found his gaze immediately, even in the dark.

“Bass,” she whispered “it’s ok.”

The look in his eyes nearly undid her, but she had cried enough over the past two years. She wasn’t going to waste any time on tears tonight. She cupped his face in his hands and willed him to see that she understood. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized the words weren’t necessary, or even wanted.

Their bodies took over then. Charlie’s belt hit the floor first with a jingle, followed by his boots with a dull thud. She toed off her own boots while he peeled her tank top off and unfastened her bra. He paused long enough for her to strip him out of his own v-neck and stood so she could work at the fastenings of his jeans. The muscles in Charlie’s stomach fluttered under his fingers as he unsnapped her jeans and slid them over her hips along with her panties.

Bass didn’t have to tell her he thought she was beautiful. His eyes on her face, his lips against her skin, and his hands stroking her almost reverently spoke the volumes he couldn’t bring himself to say. By the time their bodies met, she was shaking with need. When he thrust into her he moaned so loudly that Charlie would have giggled had she not been inches away from screaming herself. She clutched his shoulders, wrapped her thighs around him and lost herself to the rhythm their bodies found together as white hot tension began gathering at her core. She hardly noticed when he rolled them over so that she was in control. As she strived against him he reached between them to stroke her where they came together. She gasped as her entire body tensed and released at once, her inner muscles clenching around him over and over. Vaguely she heard him find his own release with a cry that might have been her name.

Charlie collapsed on top of him after the residual tremors ceased, savoring the sensation of contentment and peace that lingered in the wake of her orgasm. He swept her hair away from her face and kissed her forehead, as his other hand stroked her back. After a few moments she tried to roll away. She didn’t think he could be comfortable with her sprawled atop him, but he tightened his arms around her until she relaxed again. Just as she began to drift into a light sleep, his voice rumbled beneath her.

“I do, you know.”

“I know,” she murmured in reply. “I do, too.”


	9. Marked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charlie/Bass, 100 word drabble - (far-off) future. Inspired by the prompt "marking" at round 15 of the Porn Battle. And now this summary is almost as long as the drabble...

Your body is marked with his initial, in raised red lines and curves for all the world to see. It reminds you both of what he was, what he no longer is, and what he could be again so easily. He kisses the marks when he fucks you. You know he wouldn’t remove them if he could.

Instead, he bares his flesh to your knife, and you carve out a piece of his soul and replace it with a bit of yours, there beneath the indentation of muscle at his hip. You are his. He is yours.

Broken, but whole.


End file.
